Strangelove
by merbelle
Summary: Someone has an encounter with Wesley. Situations mostly implied.


fall, 2005

I'd taken the job on a temporary basis, but when the six months were up and it was time to head back east, I found myself reticent to leave California behind.

He walked me to my car after the final meeting. I told him it wasn't necessary, I mean, I can handle myself against whatever might come crawling out of the big bad dark of night, but still he insisted. When we reached the parking lot, he hesitated, as though there was still something he needed to say. After a three hour meeting where he had the floor most of the time, I'd have thought he ran out of words. Then he cleared his throat.

"I, eh, I thought perhaps we might find a place to talk, have a drink if you like, or coffee, something--?"

"Well gosh, Wesley, why don't we just go back to my apartment and I can fix you a drink there?" I knew what he wanted, I figured we could just cut to the chase. After all, the signs were there; I'd been planting them for weeks, right? And clearly, he was either finally reading them, or setting up a few of his own.

At the apartment, I took his coat as I asked, "Irish or Scotch?"

He grinned in reply, "Irish, please, neat."

"Of course. I know a purist when I see one. Here you go," I said, handing him a glass of Black Bush, making sure to brush his fingertips with my own as he took it from me. It was like static shock, if that could be deemed a pleasant sensation.

Tossing back half the glass; I had poured a double, Wesley leaned back, tilted his chin up, and with eyes half-closed, murmured, "Liquid silk. God bless the Irish."

I excused myself for a few minutes, so I could change out of my work clothes and check my voice mail. No calls from headhunters, no calls even from Mom, but there was one offering a fourth carpet cleaning if I paid for three. Whatever. Opting out of the classic but cliche negligee combination, I quickly replaced my jacket, blouse and skirt with a stretch tank top and running shorts. Like I ever run. I put my hair in a loose ponytail with a few tendrils left dangling past my ears. Men love that. They think they're being subtly playful as they lean in to twist a lock around their finger, then move in closer to whisper something clever in your ear.

When I returned, I saw that he had removed his jacket and tie, and refilled his whiskey glass. Signs fully read and understood.

He looked up, clearly startled as I entered, and spoke, "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was interrupting a midnight run."

"Well, there's no reason I can't find some other way to work up a sweat." I walked over to the couch to join him, momentarily frozen in position with glass to his lips.

He swiftly replied, "They say you reach your fitness goals much quicker with help from a personal trainer." Then he tossed back that whole drink like it was a glass of water.

Taking the glass from his hand, I retorted, "Are you making me an offer, Wesley?"

He turned, shifting his weight to face me, and pulled my arms up over my head, drawing his hands up the length of them in a trembling motion, then suddenly and swiftly brought my hands down tightly against my sides and answered, "If you're willing and able to endure what I can offer you, it's all yours."

Yesterday I was rummaging through my closet and I found the tank top on the floor, where I'd thrown it, thinking maybe some day I'll fix the straps and wear it again. Probably I won't. In any case, I'll know what sort of garment not to wear next time I see him. If I see him. He's been away for a couple of days; no one's heard a thing. Again. Last time he disappeared, we all just waited and wondered and then just about when we'd given up and expected to see his soul up for bid on eBay, he came striding through, full of information on the latest demon he'd uncovered, with a new magical bauble to dangle before our eyes.

That night, I was only thinking of the moment in front of me, not any other to follow. If you'd asked me then what I expected or if I'd thought of any sort of future with him, in all honesty I'd have to say nada.

We lit candles. People do, of course. We set them everywhere, and then we poured wine; well, I brought the bottle and glasses, but we didn't use the glasses. I remember he held the bottle up to the light and commented on how the color was refracted in the incandescent warmth. Or some such whiskey-induced nonsense.

It stained my bed sheets, right through to the mattress. I thought later of calling the cleaning company that had left a message, but there seemed no real point. The rental company can keep my deposit if they like. Now my bedroom smells like a combination of Shiraz and the night-blooming jasmine on my windowsill. Hey, it's like a free trip to the south of France, right? Yeah. Anyway...

"Did you imagine," he asked at one point, "us in bed together while you were attending all those meetings? Did you picture me naked, in your rented boudoir, tearing up the sheets in heated lust over your delectable little body?"

I had to admit I'd never imagined it quite this way. "Actually, I assumed you were sort of a prude, you know, all getting down to business, then shutting off the light for sleep. Hey, watch it with that flame, mister! Anyway, I had the idea I could teach you things, me all full of wisdom, if somewhat lacking in experience. I've spent much more time flirting than following through, I'll admit.

"It's the accent, I presume. You hear it and you imagine a man saying such phrases as, 'A spot of tea sounds lovely, what?' and not, for one example, 'Show me your filthy sweet-smelling quim.'"

At that point, with the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger in my mouth, which I'd been alternating sucking lightly and sort of musingly flicking the edge with my tongue, I just bit down hard. But instead of protesting, he merely whispered, in this sly, amused voice, "Not there, darling; if you really want to bring the pain, you have to sink your teeth in here."

I'm so stiff, even after four days; no sweating in a 100 degree room doing impossible yoga positions class instructor ever taxed me the way Wesley did that night.

There's salt all over the place. I vacuumed the floor of course, but I'm sure I'll still be finding the stuff a year from now, behind the curtains or under the bed or wherever you'd probably not think to look for it. That was a new one, for sure. But he insisted, before we'd even touched much, really, and somehow, probably due to our having been blinded by wine and whiskey, the circle ended up being apartment shaped and sized and in our clothes, the cushions, our hair: the salt, the wine, the wax, the blur of it all, well. This was not the naively planned fantasy with the dark and dashing foreigner I'd anticipated. This was, well, contraband erotic literature, the kind with the cover torn off, dog-eared pages with key passages marked to reread and fantasize over.

I won't be going back east yet; extended the lease for another six months, signed a new contract with the firm. I have no idea where he is or when he'll return.

We stumbled into the shower, sinking down into the tub with the hot water pouring over us, and all I remember seems like half-hazed visions now, or peering through a window with distorted glass; dizzy, swimming in the blur of his hands in my hair, my teeth pulling at that amazing lower lip, the bristle of his chin against my face and all over my body, colliding against each other with reckless appetite. The steam, the scents, the muted colors; I'm wearing them on the surface of my skin and it seems like I can just rub it all in, like if I rub hard enough, it will all come back; he'll be here against me, inside me, offering a magic that lasts without fading away.

It's been raining and cold for 3 days. Here in L.A. that's not so rare as to call it a supernatural phenomenon, but it is a little unusual. My hair is a wreck, I wake up to darkness instead of bright California sun, and the days are starting to bleed together pretty much. Just now, the VCR clock tells me it's early evening, and I have a nearly irresistible urge to drown myself in cocoa. I don't mean drown, I mean drench. Hot, sticky, cloyingly sweet cocoa. Let it dry on my skin and just wait for him to show up. I think I know he will.


End file.
